


There

by Thelexicographer



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29165574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thelexicographer/pseuds/Thelexicographer
Summary: 'It’s one of the worst parts. When you feel like everyone’s moving on and you’re still…you know. There.'Continuation of the scene at Patrice's Bar in 10x03. Neville walks Florence home, and Florence considers the nature of grief and moving on. Florence/Patrice, and a healthy dose of Florence&Neville friendship.
Relationships: Florence Cassell/Patrice Campbell, Neville Parker & Florence Cassell
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34





	There

**Author's Note:**

> So...I was not expecting to post again so soon, but I wanted to challenge myself to write something from Florence's POV and this sort of fell out. 
> 
> No content warnings as such, there's nothing graphic here but we are talking about grief and loss.

‘It’s just a coin, Florence. The old switcharoo.’

As soon as Neville conjures her ring from his hand, calming the sickening swoop in her stomach, it occurs to Florence that Patrice would have found the trick hilarious. She almost hears his delighted whoop of laughter, his hands clapping together, and can’t help but smile. _Man, he got you.You should see your face, love._ Neville hands the ring back to her and it feels lighter somehow, as if he’s removed the heavy darkness from it and left the joy and laughter with which it was originally offered and accepted. 

‘I don’t think you can just rip the plaster off when you’re letting someone go.’ Neville says. ‘But now you know how it feels to throw that away, maybe doing something less extreme will be easier.’ She nods, because she knows it’s true. She’s probably known it for a while now.

When Jack emailed her to let her know he was going home, he’d told her that he had realised that coming to Ste Marie had simply been a way of running from his grief. That stung, finding out that the example she followed by going to Martinique wasn’t necessarily the answer. The time away has helped, but now that she's back it's clear that she has just been postponing the boring, difficult part of grief: the little, annoying memories and moments that pinch and wear her down. Much as she says that she wants to say goodbye, to stop being held back, she’s beginning to realise that that isn’t how getting older works. Losing Patrice is a major scar. It’s not going to stop being there anymore than the scar from her bullet-wound will. What was it Neville said before? It becomes like an extra limb?

‘That was a cheeky move.’

‘Well…you know.’ Neville's answering smirk is a little cheeky as well, surprisingly confident. One of those odd little reminders she gets sometimes that he is a fully-grown man, not a nerdy teenager who constantly needs to be looked after. He shoulders his bag and starts walking away.

She hesitates for a moment, then follows him. He waits for her instinctively. It’s habit at this point- how often at work do they fall into step with each other like this, his lurching stride deliberately slowed so that her shorter legs can keep up? There’s something reassuring about his presence as he slouches along beside her, hands in pockets, schoolboy rucksack on his back. Almost as if they’re at work, as if she has a job to do. It grounds her.

She considers her earlier thought, that Patrice would have found the fake-out funny. Yes. He would have. What’s more, he would have gotten on well with Neville. They wouldn’t have had anything in common, of course, but Patrice liked most people, even if he was a bit nonplussed in the face of her eccentric co-workers. He was kind and laid-back and quietly hardworking, a good listener, and Neville is warm and friendly and quite funny given the right conditions. Patrice would have rolled his eyes with her at Neville’s emergencies and mishaps. He would have been bemused by his rambling. But he would have accepted him as his wife's boss, and been friendly towards him, and that friendship would have been rewarded with Neville's enthusiasm and kindness. 

She allows herself the fantasy of introducing Neville to Patrice as her boss. The two of them taking Neville around Ste Marie together. Maybe playing the annoying matchmaking couple, setting Neville up with some nice island girl. Dinner parties and drinks on the beach, with Patrice, Neville and his hypothetical girlfriend, JP and Rosey, kicking a football around or dancing on the sand. Content. Settled.

When she feels the ache start up again she looks at Neville. He’s looking up as he walks, his eyes thoughtful and curious, as if there’s something to be learned from the night sky or the streetlamps. Or maybe he's tactfully avoiding her eyes. It suddenly hits Florence just how much she _likes_ him. He’s a pain sometimes but he’s also good company. Despite the coaxing and faffing it takes to get him out of the house and trying new things, she genuinely looks forward to the time they spend together.

She wishes Patrice was here to enjoy it too. Longs for his presence in a way she never could have imagined a few years ago. She’s independent, always has been. Once, when drunk, she had told Jack that she liked being single, and it's true...but it’s still hard to reconcile herself to being on her own when she’d sincerely believed for a moment that she would never have to be again. 

‘Thank you for coming.’ She says. ‘I thought I wanted to be alone tonight but…it’s nice to have company.’

‘That’s why I felt so bad about not saying anything. I didn’t know if the others had brought it up and I didn’t want you to feel like no one noticed. It’s one of the worst parts. When you feel like everyone’s moving on and you’re still…you know. There.’ Florence nods and takes a shuddering breath. Noticing that Neville has stopped walking and is looking at her worriedly, she shakes her head.

‘I’m ok.’

‘Do you want me to walk you home?’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’ he says. ‘It’s no trouble. I have nowhere to be.’ _He really doesn’t,_ she realises. He doesn’t have family here, or friends outside of the team, except for Catherine. Florence can always go home to her mother, or drop in on her brothers and friends, or call her cousins. He's alone.

'Ok.' They start walking again. ‘Do you have a big family, Neville?’ If Neville is surprised by the sudden change of topic he doesn’t show it.

‘Not really. My parents were both only children so it’s just me and Mum now. She has a new fella but I don’t know him that well yet. Seems nice enough.’ Florence nods, thoughtfully. ‘I envy you guys. You, JP, Marlon. You all seem to have cousins coming out of your ears.’ The idiom is unfamiliar enough to startle her into laughter.

‘It’s definitely hard to be alone.’ She agrees.

‘Is it hard to be lonely?’ He asks. It’s a good question, and she chews on it for a while.

‘I think…I do feel a bit lonely. Like you say, sometimes it’s like everyone is moving on and expecting things to be the same, and I’m different...but at the same time I’m still…there.’ Florence admits. ‘Without him.’ Neville stops suddenly, in the middle of the quiet road. The orange light of the streetlamps casts odd shadows on his angular face, but his eyes are the same: kind and concerned. 

‘I know that “there” isn’t a fun place to be Florence.’ He says, slowly. ‘But you can’t rush it, or let anyone else dictate how long it should take. It’s personal. You just have to put one foot in front of the other, and trust that one day you’ll find your way out again.’

‘What if I never do?’ She asks, and frowns, because it suddenly feels like the wrong question. There _was_ a time when it felt like she would never get over it, lying in a hospital bed, ring still on her finger and a morphine-dull ache in her abdomen. _I don't know how to deal with this._ But now, every day, she sees more and more little pinpricks in her grief where the light is starting to shine through. Maybe the question isn’t _what if I never move on._ Maybe the question is _what does it say about me, about Patrice, if moving on is no longer impossible?_ Or maybe it’s _if I can move on a little bit, why does it still feel like I’m wading through quicksand, like I’m not moving fast enough, like the world is still going to leave me behind?_ She's used to getting things done, taking action, getting stuck in, and now she's just...stuck.

‘You’ll get there, promise. Be patient, trust the process. Trust yourself.’ He smiles wryly. ‘Failing that, you can try trusting me.’

‘Now why would I do that, when you keep doing switcheroos?’ she counters. Neville laughs.

‘Fair point, DS Cassel. Well, don’t trust me. But…if you ever want someone to be “there” with you for a bit, just to break up the boredom…’ he trails off, suddenly shy, unsure if it’s his place.

‘Thank you.’

‘Yeah, well. S'what I'm here for.' It isn't clear whether he means as a boss or as a friend, but perhaps it doesn't matter. He puts his hands in his pockets, shrugs his bashful shrug, and they carry on up the empty street together, one foot in front of the other, a pair of long shadows in the lamplight.


End file.
